


Infinite Jest and Wisdom

by thawrecka



Category: DCU - Comicverse
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-10-20
Updated: 2004-10-20
Packaged: 2017-11-20 03:46:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 975
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/580971
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thawrecka/pseuds/thawrecka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There are no safe houses.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Infinite Jest and Wisdom

**Author's Note:**

> Characterisation is based on Gotham Knights 50-55 by Joe Lieberman and 'When is a Door' from SF&O by Neil Gaiman. This is set sometime before GK 55.

Here in the dark, not thinking about it. No, no. He doesn't think about things like this because he's not that kind of boy.

He hasn't been a boy for a long time.

He started getting old. His hair was getting grey, his joints hurt and sometimes, in the night, he couldn't read his own puzzles. He was getting old. He's not young again, no matter what his body says.

Second chances are a lie. The Joker's soft creamy glove on his face tells him that, as it pushes against the places where his jaw screams in pain.

He can't think of this man as Jack, no matter how hard he tries.

He hurts. He hurts so much that breathing is almost impossible to bear. This many years fighting Batman, going back again and again like a hapless fool for every new beating, he thought he knew pain. But then, a few weeks ago he was still able to use his fingers, so there's far too much he's learnt lately.

The Joker is stroking his cheek, roughly, and smiling at him. It's not a very mad smile. It's not a very villainous action. The joker has seemed far too lucid, lately; no tricks up his sleeve, no passion for the job. Except, here's the joke, they're all getting older and frailer, every fucking beating and failure taking a toll on them and they can't fucking stop. There's more people getting in on this all the time, more would be villains trying to take over this town, more fucking vigilantes trying to stop them dead and increasingly he's felt irrelevant, useless, forgotten by a world he helped to make.

He's sure what he did used to mean something.

The Joker is still smiling through that bright red mouth. "Give us a kiss, " he says, cruelly sympathetic.

Is this his payment for relative safety? Corruption with his friends used to feel better than this.

Of course Edward kisses The Joker, though his mouth hurts more than he ever thought possible and he can't do anything with useless bandaged hands and he can't keep his fucking left eye open. Of course he capitulates. He thinks he might be a little in love with this horrible man, which is so sick and stupid it makes him want to be violently ill (though that may just be the effect of the excruciating pain).

"I'll do something for you if you do something for me, " The Joker says, in a nasty voice.

He can't help but nod. All that time in prison with only his hand for company, not willing to be touched by anyone who wanted to take his power away from him and now he can't even fucking do that. He's so happy to still have use of his limbs that he'll probably do anything that The Joker tells him to at the moment.

He… He actually feels like crying, not that he'll admit to it, not that he'll let himself. He feels like a broken toy, pasted back together all wrong.

Pushed back on to the floor, he lays himself against the coolness of the floorboards, ignoring the pain in his back. The Joker pushes his hands up above his head and his shirt stretches uncomfortably against his shoulders.

The Joker leans over him, looking ever so much like a vulture surveying carrion before him, in spite of the bright colours and nicely fitting coat. He presses one yellow-gloved finger to Edward's chest, pushing it up, over the buttons and the pale material, until he passes the collar of the shirt and the finger slips into the hollow of Edward's throat. His throat feels full with impossible breaths. The Joker presses down and Edward arches his neck into it, feeling the pressure begin to cut off his air.

The other yellow-gloved hand grabs Edward by the tie and pulls him up a little, until he's stretched into an uncomfortable arch, hair sweeping the floor.

The Joker rearranges him, then, undoes the tie, untucks the shirt, nudges his legs open with one bony knee.

He goes with the movement, allows himself to be rearranged and posed, artfully dishevelled.

The Joker wriggles bony fingers under his belt and slowly unhooks it. The belt comes out of the belt hooks like a rising snake. The Joker throws it across the room and it coils on the floor, lifeless.

And then The Joker unzips (undoes him) his pants and his fingers are… His fingers are cold and hard, all bony joints and terribly firm grip. It's almost like having his skin peeled off, slowly. Eddie hisses and arches his back and his body hurts so much he feels like he's on fire. The eye that isn't swollen shut flutters to a close.

And the worst part is that it feels good.

"Tut, tut, tut," The Joker says. "Open your eyes."

And so he does.

He looks up at The Joker, back lit and terrifying, remembers he liked it better when they use to put any criminal in a mask in Arkham. He watches the way The Joker's lip curls and he remembers how loud and vibrant the place had sounded at night. The Riddler's eyes roll back into his head and he remembers how soft and sweet Poison Ivy had sounded talking to her plants, how terribly smart and adult Scarecrow had seemed and how beautiful Mr Freeze's ice sculptures had been.

He's committed amazing crimes. He's been called a genius. He's received fan mail from far off places. He's not a loser. He's not.

He comes with a broken gasp, no sound in the room but his ragged breath.

"No fun playing with broken toys," The Joker says.

The Joker stands up and wipes his hand with his swirling handkerchief. The Riddler lays there feeling like the punch-line of a joke.


End file.
